ELDRITCH BLAST

“When he was walking around it was already dead,” you reply, “the silly thing just didn’t know it. I’m– I–”

You lift a hand for just a moment, trying to beckon him closer before bringing it down on the animal’s neck. Its breathing slows to a halt.

“What is it?” he asks, taking a step closer and trying not to inhale. You smell like death and brain matter from the wretched ship. 

“You need some too,” you whisper, like it’s a secret. Like sharing is a punishable offense. Astarion’s stomach turns, he genuinely fears vomiting. So he scowls.

“Now isn’t the time to be charitable,” he hisses, “drink your dinner before it turns.”

“But I–” you start.

“Offering me half of the contents of a dead stag isn’t going to help me, nymph,” he says. He speaks slowly, like he’s explaining a very difficult concept to a child.

You turn your head, spitting a clot of congealed blood into the dirt. Astarion scoffs. But he watches you fall again to the stag’s neck with hungry teeth. Your dress is ruined by the time you sit back, deep red staining the cheap, grey fabric an ink-black.

“Are we feeling better, then?” he asks. He stands above you, towering like a lord with his regal presence. Your white-fanged smile carries the remains of your prey.

“No,” you pout, “I feel filthy, as a matter of fact.”

Astarion clicks his tongue, all sarcastic concern. You peer up at him in the dark, your brow furrowing and red eyes narrowed to slits.

“And I feel… fuzzy. Like there’s thunder in my head,” as if to illustrate the point, you let your cheek loll to the side. It rests on your shoulder, smearing blood onto tattered lace.

“It must be that wriggling, little thing they stuffed into our eyes,” he says. You give a sad nod. “But I feel well enough.”

“Likely starving, I imagine,” you say. You nudge the deer with your foot, the sole of your boot is caked with dirt. “Nothing left in that.”

“And thank heavens for it,” Astarion mutters. You roll your eyes.

With an uncanny rigidity, you stand. Your spine twists and arches as you try to remind your bones what it means to move. The Mind Flayer’s pod made them far too ready for the grave, in your opinion. You’re not comfortable with it.

“Now it’s my turn to play mummy,” you say. Your voice stretches and tightens with your arms as they rise above your head. Bits of you pop and crack like a corpse is moving.

It is.

“I’m strong enough, I’ll bring you a nice surprise to quell the hunger that’s making you so unpleasant,” you sigh. “Don’t move. It’ll be just like the time at the marketplace, but there’s no one here who smells good enough to chase.”

“Please, you were the one who ran off,” he chides. Your bubbling laugh makes blood run in a slow trickle from the corner of your lip. You lick it up.

“Oh, my sweet, little star,” you waltz towards him, your movement almost like a puppet. 

You drape your arms around his neck, smothering the front of his doublet in the remains of your supper. Astarion bristles, his upper lip curling into a snarl. But before his hands can do much other than grip your waist and try to push, you lean in and press a dreadful kiss just under his infected eye.

“My poor boy, that funny knickknack in your brain has you all mixed up,” you tut. He could spit poison at you, but you’re gone in a flash.

You dart like a water strider under his arm, a knife through the air. You spin and you’re laughing rushing off into the brush without a sound but your haunting voice.

“Let’s see what I can find for you to play with,” you call back to him. And then Astarion is standing alone in the clearing.

The bloodless animal corpse is poor company. He kicks it into the underbrush and makes a show for absolutely no one of sitting down on a stump to await your return.

“You have power in your own right, and a great deal of it, for yourself,” he replies. Halsin almost looks disappointed, though not in you.

It’s in himself, and you understand it fully when he retreats to a nearby log to sit.

The camp is quiet and you’re thankful, uncertain if you can stand to hear Astarion giggling behind your back right now. You feel stretched thin, coiled like a nerve and frayed at the edges. But you sit with him, you begin smoothing the bandages out.

“If I’d known it would cause you such distress, I never would’ve told you to leave the grove,” he sighs. Now he’s just trying to assuage fears, he says it because he wants you to grit your teeth.

So you do, and you cup his jaw before dragging his eyes up to yours.

“Stop it. I would’ve come whether you asked or not, and I know that’s all you want to hear,” you reply. His eyes are full and hollow, disgusted with his need for affirmation and yet still delighted when you provide. “If only you’d let me tend to you as easily.”

He still bears lacerations on his arms and face, you focus on what you can see. An unsightly gash mars his right temple, the scrape and bruise telling you that someone threw a rock at his head. Several rocks.

“Vicious, little things,” you growl. You cup your hand and with a very intentional blink, cool water begins to fill your palm.

“They were only children,” he assures you. Halsin sighs.

“Dreadful children who locked you in a dreadful cage in a dreadful castle,” you huff. 

Dipping the end of a bandage in the water, you use it as a makeshift cloth before dabbing carefully at the split in his temple. It would be easy to spark the magic between your fingers, to make the torn flesh whole again in an instant, but he’s been very difficult with this. You’d like to let him stew in the sensation of being touched.

“Tell me if it stings,” you say. 

His cheek turns just a fraction before he seems to catch himself. Halsin subconscious lean towards your warmth is cut short by his own realization. And you only lift an eyebrow.

“You couldn’t cause me any pain,” he says, “not when you’ve been so patient.”

“And you so terribly rude,” you reply. He looks remorseful.

“You have my apologizes, I simply didn’t want to be a burden,” he tries to explain. You shake your head.

“Do you know what’s a burden, my love?” you ask him, and do not wait for a response, “Watching you limp around camp while pretending to be hale and healthy.”

“A bit of fight remains in me yet,” he says. You understand he’s trying to make you look at him again, there is mirth in his eyes. “I wasn’t at death’s door.”

“Lucky for you that your skull’s as thick as it is, Halsin. Or else the goblin children would’ve splintered it into pieces,” you return. And even though you do not want to, you delight in his throaty laugh.

It looks like it hurts his ribs, and you press your palm against his cheek, doing your best to avoid his wounds. You try to comfort him, even as you say nothing.

Your hand moves around the back of his head, and he’s all too eager to occupy your space again. He shifts forward, pressing himself as near as he can against you even with his injuries. You accept him into your arms, despite his stupidity, and choose to accept it as a reflection of how much he loves.

“I’ve missed this,” he sighs, “in the goblin camp I came to terms with perhaps never having it again.”

You shush him, even as you allow him to rest the uninjured part of his forehead against your cheek. Turning your head, you press a light kiss over his brow.

“Don’t,” you say, “don’t pretend you thought I wouldn’t rescue you.”

“I knew you would try,” he replies, “but I’ll admit I was surprised that you managed to temper your disgust with your surroundings long enough to play at friendship with the enemy.”

You huff and the fingers combing gently through his hair move suddenly to his shoulder. You push Halsin back, and your eyes request that he does not test you. He’s still smiling a bit around the edges.

“I follow the Holly King. And in the dead of winter one must traverse through darkness to find light, isn’t that so?” your question is rhetorical, but he seems to enjoy finding something in your tone other than pity.

“Thank you,” he says, “for coming to find me. I had lost all hope.”

“So your heart is not made of wood,” you sigh, turning to the trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth.

“Not remotely,” he says, turning once again to find your warmth. And once again, you hold his jaw.

“Stop talking, let me heal you,” you order. He falls blissfully silent. 

It’s only when you take the rag away and mumble a spell to seal the tear that he speaks up.

“Kiss me,” he says. His voice is low, like even he did not want to be brought to ask. You blink.

“You’re bloodied,” you say, “and being very difficult about it.”

“Forgive me,” he says, “for running off and leaving you until now. It wasn’t until I returned to the Grove that I realized I could never part with you again―”

You cut him off by giving in to his most indulgent request. A kiss for the Arch Druid who’s been acting so foolishly, rushing about with reckless abandon.

His lips are warm and familiar, a piece of home tucked away in your heart. Even in unfamiliar territory, you kiss him with the hesitance and breathless desire of stolen embraces in the Grove’s library.

Your arms wrap once more around his neck, his hands finding your waist. It’s been ages since you could have him for yourself, longer still is the lack of fear for being caught. 

You take a few liberties with his mouth, despite your concerned for Halsin’s health. Nibbling at his lower lip makes him gasp into your exhale, and your tongue seeks to soothe any hurt.

“More,” he sighs when you pull away. 

Tilting his chin up, you look at his flushed cheeks and dark eyes. He looks hungry in a way you recognize, caught between embracing the wild chaos of his god and the restraint of responsibility. He is at an impasse, it makes you laugh at him.

“You’ve been teasing me for years, stealing glances and touches. And now all of a sudden you think you’ve earned more?” you ask, the pad of your index finger traces lightly over his lip.

He is not so proud as to forego begging, not when your this close and he is so cold alone. As if sensing his uncertainty, you tug him even closer, tempting him with the promise of what he’s asked for.

“Please,” he whispers.

“Please what?” you reply. His eyes are more full now than hollow, prayers in his irises for mercy. For gentleness.

He can only have one.

Very slowly, deliberately you sink your fingers into his hair and hold fast. Hold tight so that the back of his head is held taught. And you lean in, brushing his lips with your own like the ghost of a kiss.

You could leave an imprint of your warmth against his front, and even as he strains to deepen your feather-light kiss you don’t allow it.

Over and over again, you give him less and less. Until he makes a sound low in his throat, like a whimper, and is too in love to feel shame for it.

“You’re bleeding,” you whisper, “you’ve distracted me, Halsin,”

You’ve been sitting on a barstool so long your back’s aching. And were it a quicker-paced evening you might be forced to your feet, pouring drinks for the weary on their way to the city. But Gandrel the hunter is the only man still upright, in a manner of speaking. He’s deep in his cups and hasn’t asked for another glass of wine.

“Haven’t I seen you before somewhere,” he asks. And as if he seems to realize the foolishness of that, adds, “Briefly, of course.”

“I don’t think we’ve met, sir, no,” you begin. It isn’t always like this, most types that pass through the Dying Gull hardly notice you. They’re too busy looking at the flagon you set down in front of them.

But it seems Gandrel is smart, even when drunk. And that unnerves you.

“Forgive my asking,” he goes on, “but I think it may’ve been on a wanted poster in Baldur’s Gate.”

Clever enough to remember a face, but not bright enough to say nothing. You scoff, letting your eyes fall to the tops of your boots.

“I meant no offense, you understand,” he says, trying to salvage the interest of a pretty woman. “In fairness, I may be wrong. I couldn’t recall what the poster was for--”

“No, you’re right about where you likely know me from,” you admit. “My face was all over the city for a time.”

“Do you mind if I asked what happened, seeing as I’ve told you stories of my own?” he says. You bite your tongue to keep from telling him that you asked in order to steal from him.

“I was put on trial for theft’n murder, which I did not commit” you say, “course I ran, as any girl’d do.”

“We’ve all been scared,” he says, staring blankly at you. You nod.

“Right. Can I trust you not to say nothin’ when you get back with your quarry?” you ask in turn. “I mean, you are a hunter after all.”

“Not in the way you’d think,” he replies. “My quarry, as you put it, tends to be the bloodthirsty and monstrous kind. And I mean that literally.”

“You’re a monster hunter,” you confirm. He nods. “And the man in the wagon?”

“Not a man,” he corrects, you try not to bristle. “Vampire spawn.”

“Oh, my,” you feign a gasp. But he’s too drunk to notice. “I wonder what he’s done to earn such a fate.”

“I have no idea, it didn’t seem my place to ask,” Gandrel laughs in a way that makes you uncomfortable, “But I suppose its existence could be damning enough.”

“Right,” you reply. “That’s why you haven’t fed him?”

“Would be irresponsible, I thought,” he says. “Doubt it could die again.”

“I hadn’t considered that,” you admit.

He looks at you like you’re pitiable and soft-hearted. Like you’re still a lass on a wanted poster, wrongfully accused. You stare at him back with glassy sweetness, and he is foolish enough to mistake it for sincere.

Gandrel asks for another drink, then. And, dutifully as it is your job, you provide him with one. Though coherent enough to sniff out the gossip up until that point, this last glass makes him slump over the bar.

It’s just as well, you’ve had enough of his mismatched empathy. 

Plucking the obvious loop of keys from his belt as he snores over the bar is like taking sweets from a child. But without the obvious guilt, of course. Stealing freedom from a bad man is one of the nobler things you’ve done, after all.

You sincerely doubt him to be exemplary of anything other than cruelty, though he was right when he insisted to you that not all Gur were awful despite popular opinion. He, unfortunately, happens to be. You leave the Dying Gull with a sneer on your mouth and let the door shut quietly behind you.

Out in the cold night, you wish you’d brought your shawl. Skin turns to ice this close to winter, and you’re almost worried about Astarion as you near the wagon before you remember what he is. 

The canvas drape is still tugged out of the way, letting in lamplight and long shadows. Fear lurches in your heart when you don’t immediately see him huddled in the cage.

“Astarion?” you whisper.

“You’re late,” his reedy voice mumbles back. You hear a shifting, a creaking and a sound like bones being dragged. He pulls himself into the light at the gap in the canvas. “You said an hour, at the very least it has been two.”

“As if you’re any good with time of day,” you scoff. But with more triumph than even you expect, you hold up the ring of keys. 

Their merry jangle seems to shock him out of his joyless ribbing. His eyes, blood-red and glassy with hunger seem to sharpen in the half-light. He sits forward a little bit, though without the energy given to him by anger he lacks the strength to fly at the bars.

“You have them,” he says like he can’t believe it. “I thought for sure you’d be caught by that grubby little--” he cuts himself off when he sees your expression shift to something unamused. “He happens to be annoyingly wise.”

“Though a bit of an idiot at the same moment,” you add. To your surprise, Astarion smirks.

“Are you waiting for me to waste away to nothing?” he asks, his jovial tone now includes a sharpness. But whether it is fear or anger is anyone’s guess.

“My apologies,” you huff, choosing not to start an argument. You walk back around the cage and take hold of the lock. Astarion inches towards where the door will swing open.

It gives a satisfying click, feeling heavy in your hand when you tug it out of the loops. Pulling the door aside, you stand out of the way.

Though you offer your hand to help, Astarion does not take it as he crawls for the entrance. He stands for the first time in three days and nearly buckles upon doing so. His knees ache from sitting with his back hunched, and his eyes from straining in the dark for so long.

You jump forward, quick enough to wrap an arm about his waist and keep him standing. But before he can lash out, curl or coil away from you as he does-- Astarion notices you are not touching him any more. He’s been propped up against the cage, silver feeling uncomfortably warm with only a frayed doublet between it and his skin.

He decided he didn’t want your help. You only caught him to keep him from splitting his skull open. He gives a quick nod, not in gratitude or thanks. But it’s in acknowledgement, at least.

“You mentioned cattle?” he asks, trying to sound casual and crossing his arms over his chest. Keeping in a laugh is a struggle, but you manage it.

“Be patient while I lock up the cage. I think it best to make it look as if you’re still inside of it,” you rationalize. Astarion rolls his eyes.

“If I had it my way, I’d be strong enough to lock him in there,” he spits. “And to see how he enjoys himself.”

“Yes, and then you’d spurr the horse until it carried him to some other place with people less likely to forgive vampire spawn,” you reply. You don’t fumble with the lock in the least, sliding it back in its place and readying its key.

“I meant that he would be dead,” Astarion mutters. “In addition to being caged.”

“So did I,” you reply. You look back at him with a firm look. “Best that he be kept alive for now. No use murderin’ where it isn’t needed.”

“I don’t have much of a say, I suppose,” he admits. It’s true, he can barely stand. And cows blood will only give him strength enough to run now that his energy’s failed him, “Lead on.”

“Give me just another moment,” you say. “There’s two keys on this ring.”

“And?” he sighs. You’re already walking around the wagon, and though you don’t see him lean his head back against the silver bars-- you hear him hiss when his skin makes contact.

You smirk, tempted to ignore him.

“Odds are it’s not a key to a house, seein’ as he’s a proud wanderin’-type,” you say. 

You crawl up in the wagon and begin to feel over the rough wood. Your fingers brush over a keyhole discreetly placed perpendicular to the seat. A hidden compartment lies under it.

“What are you doing?” Astarion asks more directly, following you around the other side of the wagon and leaning when necessary.

You’re on your knees in the footrest, but you lift your head as a lock clicks open a second time that night.

“Outside the Dying Gull,” you whisper. The man driving the covered wagon didn’t look too friendly, you’d rather he not know you’re speaking to his travelling companion. Or captive. “It’s an inn on the highway, about a week’s hard ride from Baldur’s Gate.”

The man sounds flat, pressing his injured palm to his forehead and being careful not to touch the bars with the back of his neck.

“Well,” he sighs, “I’ve heard far worse news in the past three days. That just leaves who you are.”

“Just the barmaid,” you admit. After a pause, you continue, “If you don’t mind, can I ask a question now?”

“Were I in your position, I may have a few,” the man says. He’s still slumped over, you’re beginning to worry. His hand now covers his eyes, like they hurt. However, his tone is oddly sarcastic for his apparent exhaustion. “By all means, ask.”

“What’s happened to you? Why’s that man got another man locked up in the back of his wagon?” once you’ve opened your mouth you can’t quite stop. The man huffs, either in amusement or annoyance.

“That is two questions, in fact. So now you’ll have to pick just the one,” he says.

“I answered two,” you reply. But you’re inclined to take pity. “Fine, the second one.”

“I am in the company of a very incompetant bounty hunter,” the pale man begins, “who has wrongfully determined my identity to be that of a criminal.”

“Oh,” you tilt your head to the side. Looking into the cage, you see two red eyes swimming in the centre of his pale face when his hand moves. “A criminal might just say that. Are you lyin’ to me?”

“Of course a real criminal would lie, but I am not one in the least,” he insists. He seems to gain a little energy defending his morality, either that or he’s a capable performer. The man sits up until he’s moved away from the bars at his back. “Whatever that Gur says, I am not who he thinks I am.”

You say nothing for a moment, peering through the dark at those deep-red eyes. You decide that he’s lying. But to his credit, he’s a man in a cage. And you find something other than pity welling up in your chest once more.

His anger seems mostly gone now that he knows it was misdirected. The creature looks tired and gaunt, hungry and in pain. Your heart lurches.

“One more question?” you ask. He heaves a sigh.

“Very well, what was it?” he starts, “Right, what in the world has happened to me, well--”

“No,” you stop him. “Not that one, I don’t really want to force you to make up more lies. I just want to know your name. Can you tell me that?”

He seems stricken for a second. And only then does it occur to you that he’s begun to peer back. It’s what sways you to find him innocent, you decide. He looks at you, stares at you and tries to decide if you’ll be the third person to hurt him in as many days.

“Astarion,” he says. “My name is Astarion.”

“Good to meet you, Astarion,” you say. He seems troubled by your good-natured smile, not the least bit comforted by it. But it’s better than a grimace or a look of fear, he seems to reconcile.

Especially when you put your hands on the cage. Then, it appears as if hope’s caught in his eye. The bars don’t burn you, you notice. And you frown. But only for a moment, only as you’re thinking. 

“This won’t be easy to open,” you say. You bring your knuckles down on the metal, eliciting a hollow sound. “Were the whole thing pure silver, it’d buckle under its own weight. But it’s platin’ somethin’ sturdier--”

“And how do you know that?” Astarion asks. You look down at him, your eyes are no longer sizing him up. 

They’ve decided he is neither predator nor prey, as he has with you.

“Da was a goldsmith, he worked with all sorts of precious metals,” you explain. “Means I can identify ‘em, but I’ve not the strength to rip the door straight from its hinges.”

“And I’ve been starved for days,” he confesses, “so I’m far too weak to be of any help.”

The look of empathy on your face is unprecedented. It seems to make Astarion uncomfortable, so you stop it. You turn instead to the door that’s locked tight. A cruel, rusted padlock bolts it shut.”

“Could nick the keys off ‘im,” you muse. You’re not watching the stranger’s face, but it’s more expressive now that it’s been since you tugged the curtain covering the cage aside.

“You would do that for me?” he asks. “You believe me, you would free me?”

“Please,” you huff, “you’re bein’ treated cruelly. And I’ve no reason to trust the man who’s keepin’ you hostage, either. I won’t aid him.”

“Good to know that there’re still a handful of decent souls to be found,” he says, “even if I’ve only noticed a dearth of them.”

“But I don’t believe you in the slightest,” you add. Astarion squeezes his eyes shut.

“I swear to you that I am innocent, what more--” he starts, you cut him off with an unexpected smile.

“I know you’re innocent, I’m choosin’ to believe that. But I also know you’re far from honest,” you say. He cocks an eyebrow.

“Then we have an understanding,” he says. He sounds relieved and you nod.

“I’ll need the key, but I can steal it. Once you’re out, I’ll take you to the barn behind the inn. There’s cattle there,” you tell him. But Astarion bristles with feigned disgust.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” he snaps. 

You try your best not to roll your eyes. Lying, it seems, comes too naturally to him. With the plan laid out before you, you drop the padlock.

“I’m not stupid, Astarion. And you’re a poor liar,” is all you say. And it’s all that he does, too.

When you move to tug the curtain back over the cage, however, Astarion sits up. Panic is back in his eyes, you dislike the sight.

“No. Don’t, please,” he says. He holds his hands out, perilously close to the silver that burns him so badly. “I-- I haven’t seen outside in days. Leave it.”

“Of course, I wasn’t thinkin’,” you say. “I’ll be back in an hour or so, try to stay out of sight of any passers-by.”

You make a point to tug the curtain a little further back, giving Astarion a view of the Gull after dark. He watches you turn away.

The inn glows, light spilling out of its square windows. The Gur inside is still boasting, drinking himself into a stupor that he’ll have to sleep off eventually. But whether he’ll do it here is what worries you, what pushes you back inside and in search of the key that fits the padlock.

As you walk, you can hear the awful voice rising above the din. Part of you wonders if the vampire in the cage is lying to you about everything, for he is a liar at heart. Another knows that either way, what’s being done to him is evil. You pause before you open the door.